


Get By

by mission_possible



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-04 15:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11557977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mission_possible/pseuds/mission_possible
Summary: You have no money, no friends, and now no family. All you have is the girl who ruined your life. You get by.





	1. Camila

**Author's Note:**

> Violence, mentions of drug use, mention of rape. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're eighteen years old when you taste blood for the first time.

I.

You’re eighteen years old when you taste blood for the first time. Just graduated from high school, one foot stepping out of the previous door, the other ready to step into any other. It happens in a fast-food parking lot. You’re drunk off your mind and you’re not sure if you’re imagining it.

She calls you a coward; the words sting like venom, and all you see is red. Boiling hot red, so you swing blindly. The pain in your fingers indicates you struck a heavy blow, and you stumble back, falling down again. Your vision clears a bit, and you see she’s down as well.

“Fuck you,” You sputter, but with all the blood and loose teeth in your mouth, you’re not sure if she understands you.

She shouts back, lunging forward and landing on top of you. Her hands find a familiar home grappled around your neck, and your mind flashes back to when things were civil between you two.

It was bound to boil over any day now, and the tipping point was the alcohol.

You spit, and blood splatters on her face when you shove her off of you. Now you’re on top of her, punching her senseless. Your blood mixes with her own, and it’s all red, red, red, again, until it begins to darken, and all you see is black.

 

II.

You wake up to florescent lights and incessant beeping. You swat your hand in the direction of the noise, the alcohol still present in your system. You feel nauseous, and your jaw aches. Your lips are dry and taste of copper, and it hurts to turn your head but you do it anyway.

She’s in the bed next to you, face bruised beyond recognition. You smirk. She said you didn’t have it in you, but boy, did you prove her wrong.

Maybe you had it in you all along, and all it took was persistent taunts and a little liquid courage to realize that you were just as evil as she. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

She groans out, and your nerves calm a bit, because _thank god, you didn’t kill her._

“Hey,” You don’t recognize your voice: it’s harsh and thick and low. God, you sound just like her. Look what she made you do. Look what she made you become.

“What?” She snaps just as coldly, not even bothering to look at you, opting for the plain white ceiling.

“I totally kicked your ass.” You find yourself laughing, struggling to get out the words between gasps for happy air.

She begins to laugh too.

The nurses walking by think you’re both insane, and they’re probably right.

 

III.

You get discharged from the hospital with a bill you can’t possibly pay, but your father is there to save the day with a disappointed grimace and an insurance card. The latter is the only that draws some emotion out of you, in the form of relief.

She has to stay a few more days, since her condition was more critical, but you don’t look back.

The ride home is quiet and tense, but you stare out the window instead of causing confrontation. Your mother doesn’t even look at you when you enter the house, but the final glare your father sends tells you to go to your room and stay away from your sister.

You slam the door and enter your bathroom, flicking on the unforgiving lights and wincing at your appearance.

Your face is bruised almost as badly as hers, and some of the blood vessels in your left eye are popped. Your mind flashes to the lonely nights when she would bang on your window, looking just like you do now. You would hold her as she cried, not asking questions, not saying much.

Sometimes she would ask you to sing to her.

That was when she was her most vulnerable, so naturally she was her most guarded whenever you caught her outside of your bedroom.

It was a game—no, it wasn’t enjoyable enough to be a game. It was torture. An endless cycle of ‘I hate you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’. It was hell, and nothing can convince you otherwise.

You did the only thing you wanted to do to her.

Punch the shit out of her, and make her feel on the outside how you felt on the inside.

And the vengeance was pure bliss.

 

IV.

She appears at your window the same night your parents tell you that they’re kicking you out. It isn’t fair, how she’s able to catch you at your most vulnerable as well. But you let her in.

Your first instinct is to coddle her. To wrap her in safe words and soft lullabies as she drifts off to sleep in your tender, loving arms.

But you meet her only with a cold, silent stare.

“Camz,” She uses the familiar nickname on you, but it doesn’t have the same effect anymore. “Camz, I’m sorry.”

You turn your cheek. You should be apologizing too, but you hold your tongue. You know she won’t ask one of you, because then you would have a reason to turn her away.

“Please look at me.” She chokes between broken sobs.

“They’re kicking me out, Lauren.” You state emotionlessly. You won’t cry in front of her. She doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing she still has a hold over you and your emotions. You’re your own person, but it never felt like it with her.

She doesn’t respond, and you’re glad she doesn’t. Because if she offered a place with her, you couldn’t say no, and the cycle would repeat.

You’re so close. So close of breaking out of her hold. You’ve endured too many punches in the face and kicks in the ribs to give up now.

“I think you should leave.”

She looks at you with wide, scared eyes, and you almost give in.

“W-what?” She stutters, unsure of her own ears.

You don’t say anything, only giving a silent ‘ _you heard me’_. She seems to understand, and nods. Right before she turns to leave, she whispers a broken, “I love you”.

And then she disappears into the night.

You’re unsure if you will ever see her again.

 

V.

You stay with Dinah. The guilt weighs you down heavily, intruding on the already crowded apartment. You don’t have a job, either. You got fired for missing too many shifts—and it’s all _her_ fault.

The lack of work means the surplus of spare time. You spend it thinking, mostly about your future. Or, lack thereof.

College was never really an option to begin with. Thankfully, Miami is big enough for you to avoid your family. They don’t want you anymore, and it would be awkward to run into them again.

You didn't even get to say goodbye to your sister. Your parents probably spoon-fed her the sour idea that you left them. She might never know the truth, and if somehow, somewhere down the road you get the chance to tell her, she probably won’t even believe you.

But you don’t have the luxury of thinking that far ahead. Only time heals wounds this deep, and you don’t think you’ll have much of it.

You see the disappointment on Dinah’s face every time she enters the apartment, a sibling in her arms, you still on her couch.

You don’t want to intrude to the point where your own best friend kicks you out. You don’t think you could handle that.

So with your mind made up, you take your single duffle bag, and hit the streets.

 

VI.

God gives you the middle finger when he calls in a string of violent tropical storms. You’re cold, wet, and hungry as you sit shivering behind a dumpster in an alley. Most of your stuff has been stolen, and you’re convinced you’ve already died.

A loud clap of thunder brings you back to your depressing reality, and you cry. Your tears mix with the cold rain droplets on your face, and it just makes you cry harder. You have no control over your life anymore. You can’t even control the fucking tears running down your cheeks.

She finds you. A hesitant name in the dark. She probably doesn’t even recognize you. You don’t look at her. It’s a mix of shame and anger and defeat. But you let her pick you up, and carry you to her car.

“Where are your things?” She asks, setting you down gently in the back seat. You almost laugh, a fleeting lightness entering your body, gone when you realize it isn’t funny to not have any belongings.

Her apartment is just as run down as you remember. It creaks and gives with your weight, and the storms aren’t helping.

Her bed smells just like you remembered in your dreams.

You sleep for days.

 

VII.

You wake with a violent shake, and you clutch your stomach. There’s a half-eaten bag of potato chips on the bedside table, and although it’s not really what you should be eating on the verge of starvation, it’s better than dying.

The more you think about that, the more points you find to argue the other side.

Your skin is hot, but you feel cold, and she gives you generic cough syrup. You ask her why she has so many bottles, but she deflects the question. You pretend she simply didn’t hear you.

You also pretend not to see the little red dots on the inside of her arm, but she knows you see, because she jerks her sweater down over them. “It’s cold,” she explains, the temperature above ninety.

“How are you, Camz?”

The question requires so much unpacking that you finally crumble. It’s the nail in the coffin. The final push over the edge. You realize you hadn’t cried in weeks—since that night in your window, and it makes you cry harder.

She holds you, the roles reversed, and you realize how comforting it is.

 

VIII.

She seems different.

She doesn’t ask how long you will be staying, and doesn’t ask about your occupational status. She just leaves a plate for you at night, wordlessly watching TV on the couch as you eat.

It’s nice, really.

You don’t actually talk, or face the fact that soon there will be no more money, or that she might overdose on whatever she’s on any day now. You just cry into her arms every night.

You never realized how easy it was to run from the truth.

You just don’t know how much longer you can run before getting tired.

 

IX.

Sooner than you thought, apparently. When she bursts into the apartment, smelling of alcohol and marijuana. You hope that’s the worst of what she did tonight, but you’re hope isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

Thankfully, she’s experiencing a happy-high, instead of a sad or angry one. You couldn’t do an angry-high right now. You’re too drained.

She barges into your room, and crashes her lips into yours.

It’s long overdue, and you expected it to happen much sooner, but you push back with as much force and passion as her.

She’s a giggling mess when you unclasp her bra—an even bigger one when you unclasp your own.

But her giggles turn into heavy breaths when you lower your head in between her legs. You’re surprised with how much you remember about her body.

It’s the relapse—the calm before the storm.

 

X.

You wake up to a cold bed, but you would’ve only been surprised at the opposite. You smell the unfamiliar scent of breakfast in the kitchen, and it reminds you too much of your old life—you feel yourself becoming emotional.

Because you just referred to your previous life at that house as your ‘old life’, and you know you’ll probably never step foot in that building again. You never took the phrase to heart, but damn, do you miss it more when it’s gone.

She hears your quiet footsteps as you enter the kitchen, and she turns around with a smile.

“I made breakfast.”

Her voice is unsure, but your smile is genuine, and she visibly relaxes.

It isn’t the culinary excellence you were used to, but it tastes like maybe a new home, albeit a bit on the burnt side.

 

XI.

There’s a slight shift in the air.

She calls you to the table, and you eat together. You learn she’s been taking courses at the community college, but you rarely see her doing homework or studying, so you’re not sure how much truth she holds in the statement.

She asks what you’ve been doing with all your free time, and you tell her honestly.

“Not much, but I’ve been looking for a job.”

She makes a joke about how you’d be a terrible waitress, and you laugh along with her.

It’s strangely normal, and slightly unsettling.

You do the dishes together: you wash, she rinses. The radio crackles softly in the background, and she hums along to John Lennon. It brings a smile to your face, because you forgot how good of a singer she was. You forgot how you would wait outside the chorus room for her after school, and how you would kiss in the empty bathroom.

You remember how you were just kids—and how you still are.

You end up watching _Big Brother_ on the couch, making occasional comments about certain competitors’ strategies. You don’t know who made the first move, but soon you’re cuddling. She smells heavily of cigarettes, and you try not to notice how the little red dots sparkle in the pale light of the TV.

 

XII.

You end up getting a job at a semi-fancy Chinese restaurant. The uniform is a black button-up with jeans and an apron, and you ignore the blush on your cheeks when she checks you out as you leave the apartment.

Work is hard, and the tips aren’t nearly enough, but you come home feeling accomplished, although beyond exhausted.

She’s asleep on the couch, and you smile as you shut the TV off, throwing a blanket over her. You’d like to think she was waiting for you, but she’s asleep far earlier than normal. The idea of going through her things crosses your mind, but you push it away guiltily.

Your brain isn’t the one in control when you press your lips to her forehead. She’s soft, and taste of salt and white lies.

Your bed feels too big, and you have trouble falling asleep. The sounds of the highway and the occasional sirens fill the silence, rather than breathy moans and whimpers. You can’t decide which you hate more.

 

XIII.

Your first paycheck crushes you harder than you expected. It’s not enough. _Of-fucking-course it’s not enough._ Even in the perfect world, it wouldn’t be enough.

She shows you the bills—a messy stack discarded in the corner of the room, and you wonder how she had been paying for them. You wonder how she paid for the drugs too. Possibilities and explanations fill your head, but they’re all too uncomfortable to think about.

You have your suspicions—the excessive amount of condoms in her room (yes, you gave in and ended up searching through her things that night), how she would come home late, smelling like cheap leather and unfaithful men, and the strange amount of rolled up hundred-dollar bills, placed on the kitchen table with a look that says ‘don’t worry about it’.

You don’t judge; you just fear for her safety.

You don’t know if that’s a fucked-up version of love, but you don’t dwell on it.

All you know are the bills are getting paid, and you occasionally go to bed with her. The relapse is almost over, and will soon take a turn for the worse.

 

XIV.

It’s in the form of hushed whispers at three in the morning. You hear the shuffling and giggling of two drunk girls seeking a bedroom.

You don’t know why it upsets you so much, but it rips you in two.

You call in sick, and don’t leave your room for days. You stop eating, and you wonder if you’ve always been depressed or if it’s just situational. You’re not sure how you didn’t starve, but a part of you wishes you did.

You don’t remember getting up to go to the bathroom, but by then you’re already collapsed on the ground.

You dream of high school—when you were sixteen and still laughing like everything wasn’t going to turn to hell in a couple of years. Wearing your boyfriend-at-the-time’s letterman jacket, even though it was 100+ degrees outside. You remember feeling wanted, loved, and belonged. You forgot how warm it all was.

You wish you never met the worried face you wake up to, in a familiar hospital bed.

“Camz, you should’ve just eaten.” Her voice is stern but you can hear the worry if you close your eyes. “Now I have to pay these hospital bills.”

It’s condescending. And patronizing.

You want to snap; to feel the shameful satisfaction of connecting your fist with her jaw. You want to make her understand how much she hurts you, but you’re too weak to move. You only nod, and apologize.

Things change.

 

XV.

Now, she doesn’t even cook you dinner. You’re not even sure she’s cooking any for herself, because there are never any dishes. She’s rarely home—and you hate that you refer to this run down shack as home, but the nightmares you get from your time on the street makes it more than enough—but when she is, she’s distant and quiet. She asks how you’re doing, only to make sure you won’t be putting any more hospital bills on to her growing pile.

One night at work, a table full of college boys ask you to ‘give them a show’ if you want a nice tip, and you’re unashamed at how quickly you agree. You flirt and shove your chest in their faces when your manager isn’t looking, and they laugh and high-five.

When your coworker asks how you got such a big tip, you shrug.

“Rich people, I guess.”

That’s the spark. The flame is to follow, and you wish you had someone tell you how dangerous this path you were beginning to go down really was.

The money is what keeps you from drowning.

 

XVI.

You sleep with a stranger in the week that follows. You stroke his ego, and you’re surprised at how good at this you are.

You place your own roll of bills next to hers, and you hate how proud you are. She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question it. You wish she would.

She’s deteriorating, from what you can observe. Her eyes droop into the dark circles beneath them, and her skin is beginning to sag and wrinkle. She’s jumpier, and when she accidentally drops a glass on the floor, you help her clean it up without question.

You don’t ask, but neither does she.

You think about your family. With the holidays approaching, it’s hard not to. Mostly about your sister. You wish you had a big sister to help you with growing up, and you were glad you would be able to be that for Sofi. But not anymore.

All you could do now was hope she didn’t turn out like you.

 

XVII.

You’re not sure if it’s rape.

You told him to start, but then you told him to stop. He didn’t listen, but he still payed.

You feel robbed, even though the bills weigh heavy tucked in your bra.

You’re surprised at how much she understands. About how she holds you tight and says the right things. When you realize it’s Christmas Eve, you cry harder, and she absorbs all of your sobs.

She doesn’t tell you to quiet down—that one more noise complaint and they’re out of here—your screaming matches resulted in complaints and fines, yet that doesn’t deter them from happening. She just cradles your head and tells you it’ll be alright (when you know it won’t).

You wake up in her arms, but you still feel dirty. You aren’t allowed showers longer than ten minutes, to save money on the water bill, but she still doesn’t interrupt when you exceed thirty.

You hate how much she understands. How similar you are.

You remember when you first met her. How you fell in love with her leather jackets and cigarettes. How she tasted like rebellion. You hate how she warned you to stay away; that she was bad. That she would make you bad.

You hated that she was right.

 

XVIII.

She’s drunk when she calls you a whore. (And a slut, and easy). You’ve heard the saying that drunk words are honest thoughts, but you’re not ready to face that possible truth. She throws a bottle, and you scream. And then she’s crying, and then you’re crying. She’s apologizing but you can’t hear her. The blaring in your brain, combined with your pounding heart, was drowning everything else out.

You’re just glad you didn’t shout the same slurs at her, even though you knew they held truth with her too.

It’s cold, and the lowest you’ve been in awhile. You remember drinking.

The night passes in a blur.

 

XIX.

Today is Valentine’s Day. You’re only reminded of this at work that night, when it’s too late to plan anything, even if you wanted to.

Yeah, you occasionally sleep together, but it’s rare, and loveless.

The amount of couples at the restaurant causes a familiar ache in your heart, but love is in the air, so tips are higher, and you didn’t even have to bat your eyes or undo another button, so you aren’t really complaining.

You pick up a cheap bottle of wine on your way home. You show your chest before your fake ID, and the man at the counter hands it over easily. You ignore the looks some of the other men hanging outside the liquor shop throw you, and if it were any other night, you might look back. But it’s Valentine’s Day.

You remember the first Valentine’s Day you shared with her. The night started romantically on the beach and ended in your bedroom, with one of her hands down your pants, the other covering your mouth.

She’s asleep on the couch, and you plop down next to her, abruptly waking her up. She grumbles before sitting up, looking confused at the bottle of wine in your hand.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” You say sardonically, popping open the bottle and taking a swig. It tastes like sour grape juice, but you’re confident you’ll have a buzz by the end of the night.

She doesn’t even ask how you got it, and you stopped wishing she would a long time ago, handing her the bottle.

“What’s for dinner?” It’s one in the morning.

She shrugs, “Want to go out?”

 

XX.

The diner is empty, save the few truckers scattered across, sipping coffee and flirting with the waitress. You order a plate of waffles between the two of you, and a chocolate milkshake.

There’s a whipped-cream shaped heart on the waffles, and she is quick to get rid of it. You throw her a look, but she mumbles about how she’s just hungry.

She asks about work, and you know she doesn’t mean work, she means _work_. You tell her it’s good, and that you raised your prices like she suggested. You ignore the proud look in her eyes.

You end up dining-and-dashing, and the rush you feel reminds you of when you were sixteen, doing this for the first time. She’s laughing, and you are too, and you feel your youth course through your veins like nicotine, but the feeling fades when you return to your shitty apartment.

She goes to bed without saying goodnight, and you realize you celebrated Valentine’s Day a day late. You celebrated nothing on a day that meant nothing.

You begin to cry.

 

XXI.

It’s your birthday. You’re nineteen now, living paycheck-to-paycheck, and you haven’t talked to your family in almost a year. You’ve done things you aren’t proud of, and you’re currently doing things you aren’t proud of.

She drags you to the roof of the complex, and the cool Miami wind invigorates you.

She has a bottle of wine, a bit more expensive than the one you got last time.

There are two lawn chairs on the roof, and you ignore the fact that she came up here—with someone else—probably often.

“Happy birthday.” She hands you the bottle, and it tastes sweet.

You don’t even respond, but you hand the bottle back to her. You see the dots on her arm again. You’ve seen them so much you realized they kind of look like The Big Dipper, and you wonder if she’s doing that on purpose.

“I’m quitting, you know.”

You do know. She’s said it before. You shrug and take another swig. “Ok.”

“For real.”

She’s used that one, too. You shrug again.

“I’m going to change my life.”

You laugh, genuinely.

“Ok, Lauren.” You shake your head, “Whatever you say.”

 

XXII.

She holds true to her statement on the roof. She’s coming home at reasonable times, and waking up early. She still places rolled up bills on the table, and you do too, because even if you’re trying, you still have to pay the bills.

But the red dots on her arms are fading, and you see a bit of light in her eyes.

When you enter the kitchen on Wednesday, your one day off, you’re not sure you believe your eyes. She’s at the kitchen table, a textbook in front of her, a pencil between her teeth. Her glasses are slipping down her nose, and as she pushes them up, she notices you.

“Good morning.” She smiles wearily. It’s noon, but by the looks of it, she’s probably been up for awhile.

“Good morning?” You’re still confused as you go to pour yourself a cup of coffee. It’s cold now, but you heat it up in the microwave and sit down across from her.

“How’d you sleep?”

Never once in the ten months you had been living with Lauren Jauregui had she asked “How’d you sleep?”, and it startles you. It scares you, honestly, because you’re so used to drowning in negativity, and you’re so rarely asked about your well-being that you don’t know how to answer.

You mumble, ‘good’, as muscle memory from living with your parents, and you frown slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Studying.” She says, turning the page of her textbook. “I have a test tomorrow.”

“You were serious about the college thing?” You ask incredulously, and you can’t help but blush at how rude you come off.

She just nods lazily, probably having already droned you out in favor of studying for her test.

You go back to your room, still in disbelief.

 

XXIII.

Recent events have told you to be weary of good things, so you brace for the storm that the universe will most likely send your way.

It doesn’t come.

You get promoted at work, and the regular customers get to know you better, so they tip you higher. You occasionally come home with rolls of bills, but it’s less and less. Same with her, but mostly because she’s too busy with school.

You try and call your family, but they don’t answer. You throw a celebratory “fuck ‘em” party on the rooftop. It involves smashing bottles and screaming. You’re pretty sure she made it up on the spot, but it’s the thought that moves you.

You kiss her afterwards. She tastes less like cigarette ash and more like the Juicy Fruit she chewed less than an hour ago. She breaks the kiss with a smile and a giggle, before leaning back in. She says the three words with how she kisses you. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

You don’t end up in your bed, and that’s when the mood really shifts.

You watch the season premiere of _Big Brother_ , and argue over some of the annoying competitors, placing bets on who you think will win. The bets involve stupid, gross, child-esque dares. Not rent-bets.

You’re taken back to a time, just a few months ago, when you did ‘rent-bets’. You remember occasionally losing the bet, and having to sleep with three extra guys to cover her half. You remembered not even minding.

You wonder what changed.

 

XXIV.

It’s summer now. It doesn’t mean anything anymore; you still have to work, and sometimes _work_. She seems happier though—not as stressed, and laughing more.

You see the occasional dots on her arms, and in a perfect world it would bother you, but you finally realize it’s how she copes. You wouldn’t dare try and take that away from her.

You think about how you cope. Sometimes it was booze, but you realize it was probably her. You would think about her, or the times you used to spend together. You would punch her or scream at her or drink with her. She caused the spark inside you, but was also the only one who could stomp it out.

You’re on the rooftop, watching the sunset.

You’ve upgraded to a bottle of vodka. Your liver will be gone before you're twenty-five, but that’s too far down the road for you to worry about.

When you live like this, you can only think in small chunks. If you try and take on too much, you’ll suffocate. It’s one day at a time, or even one minute at a time, if the going gets rough. Paycheck to paycheck, bill by bill. The world revolves around money, and whoever says it can’t buy happiness obviously has too much.

“What are you thinking about over there?” Her voice is playful, lilting slightly from the alcohol.

“How we’re too young to live like this.” You respond without hesitation. It’s true. You always think about that.

She shrugs. “We get by.”

You nod, looking out at the orange in the sky.

You think about how this all started—the downward spiral—what was the spark that lit the match. You can’t decide between the moment you met her, and the moment you beat the shit out of her. It doesn’t really matter. It’s her doing nevertheless.

“I wish I never met you.”

She doesn’t wince at your bitter words—doesn’t even flinch. She doesn’t say anything either, and you’re not sure why you expected her too. She isn’t one to apologize, and she isn’t one to get deep.

The sky is purple now.

You’re not sure how things are going to end up. You’re not allowed to think that far ahead. You don’t know when you’ll get to see your sister again; you don’t know if you’ll ever get a good job or a nice place. You don’t know if you’ll ever get out of here, or get to raise a family. Nothing is certain in your life, and you don’t know how long it’s going to last.

You would be scared out of your mind, but you find comfort in knowing the girl sitting next to you is experiencing the exact same thing.

It gets you by, for now.


	2. Lauren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I ruined your fucking life, Camila Cabello."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely satisifed with how this ended up, but I wanted to put it out there for you guys, and I really hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Violence, mentions of drug use, mention of rape.

I.

You're eleven when he hits you for the first time. You had seen him hit your mother. You despised him. You tried to step in, to save your mother from his fist. It didn't really work. He just hit her harder, then proceeded to hit you too.

You tasted blood in your mouth, and a tooth was knocked loose. You spit it out and lunge at him.

You don't remember who told you to punch with your thumb outside your fist, but you mentally thank them in this moment.

He's stronger than you, but you're faster. You punch and kick and give him hell before scrambling away, out of the house, because if you stayed, he might've killed you.

You don't come home until the sun comes up. He's asleep on the couch, an ice pack in his hand. Your mother probably gave it to him. You narrow your eyes and wonder what would happen if you tried to kill him. You wonder if other eleven year olds think about killing their fathers. You wonder if there's something wrong with you, and whose fault that is.

He wakes up. His eyes are unrecognizable and filled with rage. His hands are cold around your neck and suddenly you're gasping f—

You jerk awake, in a cold sweat. In your head you have to remind yourself that _he's gone, he's gone, and he can't fucking touch you again_ , but even the truth can't comfort you so you don't know why you bother. You hate how he still has his hands gripped around your neck, even from behind those cold metal bars.

You don't fall back asleep.

 

  
II.

She blindsides you.

You’re not really awake, or cognitively present when you see her for the first time. You walk into class, late as usual, and sit down in the back without giving the annoyed teacher a second thought. You know everyone in this school (every girl, more importantly), except the pretty brunette up front. She catches your eye, and by the end of class, you’ve turned on the charm and introduced yourself.

She’s shy and sweet, blushing profusely and chuckling nervously every time you throw her a compliment. She has a boyfriend, and you tell her you can fix that.

When she waves goodbye and struts away, you notice her outfit: it’s a simple white sundress matched with black converse. She reminds you of an angel, and you want to find out if you can convince her to fly down low enough so you can reach up and cut off her wings.

You don’t dwell on how bad of a person you probably are.

 

   
III.

You call her ‘beautiful’ and ‘different’ not long after you meet. She absorbs your words eagerly like a sponge, and you almost laugh out of pity. You watch her visibly begin to fall for you and you almost feel bad—keyword _almost_.

You convince her to break up with her boyfriend at the same time your hands roam from her hips, knowing she’ll agree to anything right now.

He doesn’t like that. His name is Austin or Alex, but the only name in his mouth is yours—pleading you to stop—as you beat him senseless. You usually only beat people up for enjoyment, but he threatened her, and you took it personally.

It’s almost like she’s making you soft, in a way. You feel your tough demeanor cracking every time she sends you a picture of puppies late at night or throws an adored glance your way.

She’s the ‘good girl’, and you swear you don’t have a type, but if you did she’s it.

She’s falling in love with you. It’s written all over her face.

 

   
IV.  
  
He’s been long gone by now, and your mother is in need of someone to argue with. It’s you, naturally.

At first, it’s little stuff. ‘ _I wish you’d clean up more_ ’ here, and ‘ _can’t you help with the dishes_ ’ there. Normal stuff.

But then it turns in to ‘ _why do you dress like that? I didn’t raise a whore_ ’ and ‘ _you’re so difficult, I wish I never had you_ ’.

Then she slaps you. Her hand collides with your cheek and her nails dig into your skin, and you’re bleeding. It hurts more than the worst punch you’ve endured. You think it’s because you love her. Because she’s too weak to really harm you, but she has just enough strength to try. She’s fueled by anger, but she’s always told you to be driven by love, so you’re confused.

Then she slaps you again, and if she touches your tears it doesn’t affect her. Then he barges through the unlocked door of your apartment, reaching for your neck, screaming about how he’s going to fucking kill you—

You wake with a scream. You don’t calm down, but you reach for the bottle of sleeping pills on your bedside table.

 

  
V.

You break things off with Lucy. She asks you why, but you just shrug in response. You don’t actually know why, but you’ve just grown distant from her. You spend most of your time with— _yeah, you know why._

She kisses you—hard—trying to convince you to stay. The bruising kisses don’t have the same effect on you anymore, and the whole time you’re imagining someone else’s lips. She pulls away, but holds on to your cheek. She’s crying.

She asks if you’re ok, and you don’t really know how to answer. But you know Lucy will understand. It’s what she does. She listens, and she understands.

You were in love with her, once. Her looks are what grabbed your attention, but her mind was what pulled you under.

You think about when you first met her. It was that one night—the one that haunts your dreams. You had just pulled away from your father’s grasp and were running. You ran as far as you could until you fell to the ground in exhaustion. She found you, and when you looked up—Lucy was the first angel you met.

“I love you.” You’re not sure if you say it out loud or just in your head, but she nods as if she heard you nonetheless.

She pulls you in to a hug.

 

   
VI.

You’re so happy with her; happier than you’d usually admit. So happy, that you’re the one to suggest slowing down.

It’s mid-make-out-session on her bed, your hand down her pants with hers held over yours. You weren’t doing anything—it was just heavy petting. She looks confused when you pull away, and you notice how beautiful she really is.

Her face is flush, her lips bright red. Hair is tussled, and breathing heavy.

“I think we should slow down.” You repeat, intertwining your fingers and kissing her knuckles. “I really like you, Camz.”

“I really like you too.” She gives you a toothy grin. You look over to the corner of her room, where her textbooks lay unopened.

“Do you have homework?”

She shrugs, “Yeah.”

You frown. She’s a straight A student. You share so many classes even though she's a year younger than you, because she’s just _that_ smart. But then again, you never do your homework.

You don’t think too much about it. She probably doesn’t even have that much, or something. This is one of the first signs, and you completely ignore it.

 

  
VII.

You have a job. It’s at _Walmart_ , in the back. You scan the big crates, and tell your beefy coworkers to take them out front. It’s boring, but it’s the money you know you’ll need when your mother kicks you out. Thankfully, you’ll be out of school when you reach the magic number, but you’ll have nowhere to go.

Your coworkers are nice—especially this one guy. His name is Zayn, and he’s the definition of cool, covered in a million tattoos. Everyone says you’re like his puppy, but you don’t really care.

He invites you to a party, and you don’t even hesitate. You bring her along. She’s nervous—it’s her first party, apparently—and you tell her to relax, and you’ll be right by her side.

It’s loud, and cramped, but you finally feel like you can breath as your heartbeat pounds through your head. Someone hands you something—and it’s a joint. You’ve only tried it once, but boy, will you try it again.

You fall back against the couch, and shut your eyes. You’re not sure where she went, but you faintly remember seeing a drink in her hands as she walked off. You think about her. It’s all _her, her, her_ , and several people asked you what you smoked because you just look that happy.

You tell them you honestly don’t know, and you finally understand why people say ignorance is bliss.

You tell yourself to thank Zayn next time you see him, before falling into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

 

  
VIII.

It’s your three month anniversary, and your best friend calls you crazy because you’ve never celebrated anything like this. She almost passes out when you tell her you haven’t even had sex yet.

“Are you waiting until marriage or something?” Normani asks, and you just bite your lip and shake your head, because now you’re thinking about her and _how can you not smile?_

“Damn, Lo,” Normani shakes her head, chuckling to herself. “What did she do to you?”

You shake your head again, laughing too. You remember when you thought you could take her wings. It turns out she just might be able to fix yours.

 

  
IX.

You’ve been getting better. You’re pulling your life together.

You tell yourself it’s just a bump in the road, but it leaves you floored because it feels like your first time driving. You’re sobbing in a bathroom, and it frightens you that he still has such a hold on you.

You feel so out of control, and you do the only thing you can.

 _Run_.

You run away, because it’s easier than facing your problems. You run as far as your legs carry you, your eyes up on the faint stars in the sky. When you look back down you’re at her house.

You’re not sure if it’s some fucked up version of fate, or a mere coincidence, but you don’t care and climb to her window.

She looks like she’s studying—her hair is up when she wants to concentrate, and her glasses are perched high on the bridge of her nose. She’s worried when she lets you in.

You don’t explain, because she says you don’t have to. You just cry, and cry until you soak her sweater. She smells like vanilla and safety and promises, and it lulls you to sleep.

 

   
X.

You don’t talk about it. You snap harshly, telling her to forget it. You see your reflection in her eyes, and all you can think of is your father. You lock the thought away in the part of your brain you will never go back to.

You tell her you need space, and she gives it to you.

You’re on your porch, using the sound of the highway to drown your thoughts. You run your thumb over the carvings on the deck. It’s a constellation—the Big Dipper—and you forgot how much you came out here when you were little. You forgot how you learned to use the highway as a safety net from such a young age. You forgot how it saved you at the time, and you wonder if it was really destroying you.

You scoff at yourself for being so dramatic.

You light a cigarette. And think.

 

  
XI.

Time is supposed to heal wounds, but it just cuts this one deeper. You haven’t texted her in…three weeks. You know she’s just stubborn, but with each passing day, you wonder if that’s all it really is. Normani tells you to relax, and she takes you to parties and does everything a best friend is supposed to do.

This one’s different. It’s not a bunch of teens and twenty-somethings passing a blunt around the living room. It’s worse; more intense, and possibly the exact thing you need.

You see Zayn first, and then the needle in his arm, and then the look of pure ecstasy on his face. He smirks, a look that asks _‘you wanna try?’_ , and you dig into your pocket. You pull out the bottle of sleeping pills, and give it to him. He tells you to take a seat, and he shows you how to do it.

You’re ashamed at how quickly you pick it up.

It’s different. Indescribable, but good. It does it’s job, and you forget about her for awhile.

You don’t think about the repercussions—you stopped doing that a long time ago because it’s just fucking easier.

The walk home is colder than usual, but you blame it on forgetting your jacket.

 

  
XII.

You’re graduating soon. No special ribbons to be hung around your neck. Just a plain, royal blue robe like the majority of the students. You’re not proud, just anxious. The clock is ticking down, and with only a thousand in savings, you’re not sure if you’re going to make it.

Seniors are supposed to be stressed about exams, not this shit. It’s not fucking fair, and it makes you want to scream.

And then you see her.

It’s just a bad day. She caught you on a bad day, and you completely spiral out of control when you see his arm around her neck. She knows it bothers you. She’s doing it on purpose, you know, but it still angers you beyond belief.

You crumble. You were already losing balance, and she just kicked you in the chest.

It takes three football jocks to pull you off of him, and through your blinding rage, you see his face. Unrecognizable.

The look on her face is unrecognizable as well. It’s anger and fear and something you can’t quite decipher, but you’re being shoved in to the back of a police car with bigger problems to think about.

 

   
XIII.

The waiting cell feels strangely familiar. It feels like a second home. The walls scream back at you and make you face the truths you’ve spent your whole life running from.

Normani picks you up, and she doesn’t say anything. You’re too ashamed to look at her so you don’t really know what she’s thinking.

You’ve changed, you think, but not really, because you’re back at her window with tears and hollow apologies.

She was waiting for you.

She forgives you, and you don’t even feel relief. She hugs you, and kisses you, and tells you to never scare her like that again. At first, you’re confused, because you’re supposed to be apologizing.

You try and tell her everything. It’s a blubbering, inconsistent mess, but she listens anyway and strokes your head like always. You tell her about the nightmares and the sleeping pills. About Lucy and Zayn, and the parties and the drugs. About the money and your mom. How you’re scared out of your goddamn mind, and that you’re out of sync with your emotions. That if you had to document your experiences it would be a complete mess that no one wanted to read. That you would probably apologize to anyone who did.

She laughs when you cry. Kisses your tears as they stream down. Treats you like you don’t deserve, because it’s what she does.

You ask her if she’s been studying for exams, and she says no.

 

   
XIV.

You tell her things are going to change. That you’re going to get better, and get your own place after you graduate. She believes you, and that adds so much pressure that you’re going to explode soon. You just hope she’s not in the line of fire when you do.

And then you graduate. And for one-hundred and eighty fleeting minutes, everything is ok. You see her in the crowd when you accept your diploma. She’s waving obnoxiously and screaming even though she was told not to. You wave back. She glows impossibly brighter.

You find her after it’s all over. You’ve lost your cap, and you tell her it’s the best day of your life. And then you kiss her. You ask how she did on her final exams, and she tells you not to worry about it—that today is all about you.

You’re too high on real happiness to dissect it further. You just kiss her again and invite her to Zayn’s party tonight.

 

   
XV.

Summer is a blur. You mostly spend it counting down the days until your mother kicks you out. You know she could do it whenever, but you think she’s just trying to save her conscience—pretending she isn’t a horrible person. (It’s ironic, because you’re one too).

You spend your time with her. You’re falling in love with her. You experience feelings you never thought you would, and everything comes back to her. She’s like the fucking stars, or something cliche and important like that.

You feel yourself opening up to her, and for once, you can see a future. A happy future, with kids and maybe grandkids, one where you’re growing old with her in two rocking chairs on a porch in the countryside. You’re probably just really high right now.

And then it’s your birthday. It’s supposed to be all smiles and happy times, but it’s just not. It’s stress, and going to sleep in an unfamiliar bed, in a seedy motel in the part of town parents tell their kids not to go through, even if it’s makes the walk home half as long.

You don’t sleep, but that’s normal.

 

   
XVI.

When you feel yourself sinking deeper and deeper, you’re so low that you try and kill yourself. You don’t think, and you try and overdose. Well, you’re not sure if you were trying to kill yourself—you were just trying to numb the pain, and that required more drugs than your body could handle.

You wake up, physically and mentally, in a hospital bed, your hand in hers, her crying like you’ve already died. You wonder if you have. You tell her it was an accident, and she tells you to never do that to her again.

You tell her you’re too young to experience things like this. She just nods, because you’ve finally said something that holds some truth.

She drives you back to your motel, and she’s appalled at the living conditions. You just laugh, and laugh instead of explaining, because she’d never get the joke.

She sees the bottles of sleeping pills on your bedside table, and asks about them. You tell her they knock you out, and kill your dreams.

You dish out an extra one that night, and fall asleep in her arms.

 

   
XVII.

School is starting back up for her, and you have an apartment.

It’s really bad. Worse than the motel, but it’s your own. There’s a spare room, and it just stays empty for now. She helps you move in, and after the truck is empty, you spend the rest of the night together in bed. You don’t even realize you stole her virginity. You didn’t know, but you don’t think you would’ve cared if you did. She walks to school alone the next morning—two hours late.

It’s your day off, and you spend it at your place. You have nothing to do, so you just take one of your pills and sleep the hours away. You wake up to her hovering over you with a smile. The clock only reads noon, and she tells you she missed you and just wanted to see you.

You just kiss her and dig your hands under her shirt—not asking if she has any homework to do, or a test to study for, or how many times she’s already played hookie.

It’s just easier to kiss her.

 

   
XVIII.

Before you know it, the air is colder and the stores are filled with Christmas decorations. Work is more stressful now, but Zayn invites you to the big Christmas party.

You go alone, because she has to study for exams. (You’re relieved, actually, that she’s taking her grades more seriously, but really it’s because she’s been put on academic probation).

And you have the time of your life. It’s the holidays, and everyone is just happy, and as soon as you step foot in the house, a drink is shoved in your hand. It’s strong—stronger than usual, and soon you’re bubbly and cuddly, giggling like a little child.

You don’t remember much of the night, but you wake up in a stranger’s bed—naked below the waist—with a crumpled pile of bills on the table.

It’s the spark.

 

   
XIX.

You stop by her house on your way home. It isn’t really on the way, but you miss her. She hugs you and wishes you a Merry Christmas. She smells like cinnamon, and she’s warm, and suddenly you’re crying. You don’t know why you’re crying, but you have every right to cry, given your life circumstances. She tells you that everyone needs a good cry every once and awhile, and that you’ll feel better afterwards.

You don’t.

You’re alone, on Christmas Eve, sitting on your couch drinking a warm beer. The radio in the background is playing Christmas tunes, and you realize how sad your life is. And when you begin to feel self-pity, you reach for the needle.

You turn the radio up and shut your eyes. It feels like home.

 

   
XX.

Winter ends, and spring comes and goes. You help her with her college applications, but even you’re not that stupid. You don’t think she’s getting in, even if she did really well in her first two years of high school. But you smile and kiss her, telling her how it’s not fair that she’s smart and beautiful.

It’s her birthday, and you buy her a nice necklace. The first thing she asks is how you were able to afford it. You frown, taking it personally, and tell her you’re not poor. She doesn’t really believe you, and even accuses you of stealing it.

Then you slap her.

And maybe it’s because you’re too in love with her too punch her, or you’re too tired from staying up all night smoking weed and running from your dreams. She doesn’t hit you back, and you wish she would so you can say you’re even. She just throws the necklace back at you and storms off.

You pretend you didn’t notice the dark circles under her eyes, and how her skin seems paler.

 

  
XXI.

It’s Friday night, but you’re not doing anything. You’re in your pajama bottoms and a sports bra, and you haven’t talked to her in over a week. She’s probably still mad at you. You pretend it doesn’t bother you.

And then there’s a pounding on your door, and then she’s in your arms in tears. She’s a sobbing, blubbering mess, but you’re able to make out the words “college” and “denied”. You chuckle softly, cradling her head and shutting your eyes because _damn, you missed her,_ and tell her there’s no way every college denied her. Even your luck isn’t that bad. It just makes her cry harder.

After she calms down a bit—you sang a few songs to her—she tells you that none of the colleges accepted her because her GPA was too low, and she did horrible on the SAT. You don’t even remember taking the SAT, and you’re ashamed at how little you know about the college application process. You don’t know what to say, because you don’t even understand what she’s saying.

But you do know how to make someone less sad. And when you clink your beers together, your arm around hers, she cracks a small smile. You know there are better ways to make her feel better, but this is the easiest. You ignore how your conscience screams at you to stop.

 

   
XXII.

She’s about to graduate. A couple of days, actually. She isn’t going to college, and she has no idea what she’s going to do. You hate that it stresses you out too. You hate that her problems have become yours, so you do what you do best.

You get wasted.

With all the practice you’ve had, you’re getting better at holding your alcohol, and staying aware. You’re not even ashamed anymore.

You remember sleeping with this guy, and you remember running into her. You remember her eyes—and how she knew you cheated. You remember the sting of her palm on her cheek. And you remember not even caring.

You don’t remember smashing a bottle on someone’s head when they accidentally bump in to you, or trying cocaine for the first time. You don’t remember giving twenty dollar blowjobs, and you don’t remember getting roofied.

 

   
XXIII.

You’re late to graduation, speeding down the highway, attempting to save the lost minutes. You ease off the gas when she tells you that you’re going eighty in a fifty. You turn to her, and scowl.

“You do realize you’re late to your own fucking graduation, right?”

She scoffs too. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well excuse me for trying to get you there on time.”

“Whatever.” She turns her shoulder. “It’s not like they’ll miss me.”

You park illegally in the fire lane, and help her put on her robe. It’s wrinkled, and her hat is crooked, but she made it on time. Barely.

You find an empty seat, and go on your phone for the whole ceremony. You miss when they call her name, and don’t see the sad look in her eyes when she sees you’re not even paying attention. You’re too busy texting Zayn, asking when you can get the next hookup.

Her parents drive her home afterwards, and you didn’t even say goodbye.

 

   
XXIV.

You’re drunk when you text her. You tell her you’re hungry, and you want to go celebrate her graduation. She agrees, and you meet at _McDonalds_.

She hugs you, and your buzz is almost gone, but you brought more booze. You apologize for leaving, and you tell her that Zayn was in the hospital. She probably knows you’re lying, but you don’t care.

You eat your burgers in the parking lot, on the hood of your car. You pass the brown paper bag back and forth, until you’re both pretty hammered.

You tell her that you hate your life. She just laughs.

“You’re always feeling so sorry for yourself.”

You roll your eyes. “Fuck you, Camila.”

“No, Lauren,” She stands up, almost falling over, “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you more.” You stand up too, narrowing your eyes. You shove her.

“I hate you.” Her voice is low, and full of anger. “I hate you so much.”

“You don’t think I know that?” You scoff, “Of course you hate me, I ruined your life.”

She’s silent, and you step forward.

“ _I ruined your fucking life,_ Camila Cabello.” You laugh.

“Stop it.” She says through grit teeth.

“It’s true,” You take a long swig, “I plucked you up out of your little, perfect world, and made you realize how shitty real life is. You have no friends, and nowhere to _fucking_ go. You’re never going to get in to college, and you’ll probably end up _just like me._ ”

“Shut up, Lauren.” You can see she’s crying now. You know she’s crying because it’s the honest-to-God-truth, and she’s come face-to-face with it

“And you were too in love with me to even notice.” You're not looking at her anymore. “You didn’t realize what was happening— _that your life was fucking falling apart_ —but by then, it was too late.”

You take another swig.

“You know, when I first met you, I thought you were an angel.” You shake your head. “You’re not, of course, well, not anymore, because _I cut off your fucking wings_.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“I. Ruined. Your. Life.” You take wobbly steps forward with every word, and soon you’re in her face. “Go ahead, kill me. I know you won't—you're too much of a coward. But we’re both already dead anyway.”

The last thing you see, is her fist flying towards you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and any kudos or comments are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading.


	3. Camila

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I just want to mean something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ (well, if you want to; I can't force you)
> 
> So I actually wrote this chapter right after Chapter 2, but I couldn’t decide whether to post it or not. Chapter 3 ends differently, I don’t want to spoil anything, than Chapters 1 or 2, and I was wary of posting it because so many of you said the reason you enjoyed this story so much was because of how real it was. It’s not that I feel Chapter 3 takes away from it’s realness, but I think some might see it as such. But I want to leave the decision up to the story’s readers, because that’s who I wrote it for. So if you feel that Chapter 2 ends this story like it should be ended, then do not read on. But if Camren is too precious in your heart (like it is in mine) read on, and please enjoy. 
> 
> (And I know this was originally a one-shot that somehow turned in to a three-shot, but this is definitely the last chapter, I promise.)
> 
> Violence, mentions of drug use.

I.

 

> _“I just want to mean something. To fucking be important to someone, or even something. To belong, or be able to look back and be proud. To have something to say, if anyone ever asks_
> 
> _But no one asks, and I don’t have anything to say anyway.”_

 

You shut the notebook, and rub your temples. The clock reads one a.m., and suddenly the door opens.

“Good morning, Camz.” She grins lazily, chuckling at her own joke. You can tell she’s a little bit tipsy, and your suspicions are confirmed when you taste tequila on her lips.

“Are you hungry?” You rummage through the fridge, and only find cold, dry, leftover macaroni. You’re relieved when she says no.

“I’m going to bed.” She spins around goofily in the doorway, her hair whipping back in her face. 

You just nod, and sip your coffee.

She raises an eyebrow. “So are you coming?”

 

II. 

 

> _“I sent a letter to my sister. I don’t even know if she’s going to see it, or if my parents will throw it out before she can read it. Pull a Harry Potter on her, or something. If only I had several hundred owls and one mean printer._
> 
> _I just told her how much I loved her. And that when she’s older, maybe she’ll understand. That maybe we can talk about it. That maybe she can forgive me. And then I told her I loved her again._
> 
> _I hope she gets it.”_

 

You hear a loud bang, jolting you from your writing. 

“Lauren?” 

You don’t get a response—just more noise.  

She’s in the kitchen, stumbling around, muttering unintelligibly. She’s drunk. Not just tipsy; completely smashed. 

“Lauren, what are you looking for?” You shiver in your thin sweater. It’s winter, and you wonder if she paid the heat bill like she said she did. 

“My keys.” She splutters, stumbling over a chair. You’re quick to help her up. She reeks of alcohol. 

“Your keys to what, baby?” Your voice is gentle, and you sit her on the couch so you can start a pot of coffee. You hate how good at this you are. 

“To my house.” She frowns when you sit down next to her and rub her head softly. “The door was locked, and I wanted to get inside.”

You pause, unsure of how to respond. She’s on the verge of tears. It makes you get a bit choked up inside too. “You don’t live there anymore.”

 _“Why not?”_ She reminds you of a little kid—mostly of your sister, and then you think about the letter you sent and then you quit lying to yourself and you think about how it’s in the garbage right now. 

“I don’t know, baby.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you smell the coffee. You get up, and wipe your eyes. “Do you want some coffee?”

She nods. You bring her a mug.

 

III.

 

> _“I’ve been thinking. About the universe and religion. If there’s a higher being, and if she’s putting me through hell on purpose. If she’s trying to teach me a lesson, or if she’s just bored, and wants to toy with me._
> 
> _It’s not all bad, though, because I have her. And I love her so much.”_

 

“Camz, have you seen my textbook?”

“I think it’s in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.” She draws out her gratitude, and places a sloppy kiss on your cheek when she finds you, textbook in tow.

She wraps her arms around your neck, and rests her chin on your shoulder. “What’cha writing about?” 

You giggle, leaning in to her grasp. You turn your head, and inhale deeply. “You.”

“Really?” Her hands move down your body. “Good things, I hope?”

You hum in agreement, your eyes fluttering closed. “Only the best.”

“You know,” Her lips ghost on your ear. “I don’t have to leave for class for another ten minutes.” 

“What are you trying to say, Jauregui?” You taunt back, a smirk on your lips. “Do you think you’re up for the challenge?”

She chuckles again, “I was wondering if you were.”

 

IV. 

 

> _“I think about what’s happened, and I think about it a lot. I think about how we were just young, and dumb, with nowhere to go._
> 
> _She brought up her mother, almost a week ago, in a drunken stupor. I don’t know much about her mother—or her dad, even. But I’ve collected bits and pieces during her inebriated confessions. I wrote it all down, in a book. But then I lost it. I was too young then, but I’m not even that much older now. I don’t mention her parents unless she does, because it will end badly._
> 
> _But I know if she keeps it all bottled up, she’s going to explode.”_

 

You close the notebook, and fall back on to your bed. Work is in about an hour, and you have to get ready. She’s in her room. The door is locked and music is blaring. You stopped asking her to turn it down, in case of a noise complaint (which result in fines because you’ve gotten so many), because she’ll just turn it back up when you’re gone.

You know what she’s doing in there, but every time she is, a part of you hopes she isn’t. You still haven’t fully accepted that drugs are her ‘thing’, because with your experiences, they cause more harm than good. She doesn’t listen, and the boat is steady now, it has been for a good while, and you don’t want to rock it. 

You tell her you’re leaving for work, but she probably didn’t even hear you.

 

V. 

When you get back home from work, the music is still blaring, and her door is still locked.

You panic, and when you panic, your adrenaline kicks in, and you knock the door down. 

She’s slumped over in her chair, the needle still in her fucking arm. You pull it out, and set it down carefully, like it’s a sketchy World War I grenade that could explode any second. You see it like a metaphor for your lives, kind of. 

You just put her in the bed, before climbing in yourself. You pull the covers over you, because again, the heating hasn’t been paid. You kiss her temple and stroke her hair, turning her on her side and and telling her everything that’s been on your mind. 

By the end of your conversation with unconscious-Lauren, you’ve come to several conclusions:

  1. You’ll probably forgive anything she does.
  2. She’s addicted to heroine.
  3. It hurts to love her, but you still do.
  4. You need to get help—both of you—and fast, or else— 



You don’t finish the thought, because you fall asleep.

 

VI.

It’s a good day. The sun is shining and neither of you have work today, and she’s in a good mood. 

So you suggest therapy. And you suggest you do it together.  

She pulls her hand away from yours like you just burned her. A scowl crosses her face, and she says the words you probably would’ve said too.

_“I don’t need fixing.”_

You try and calm her down, but you can see it’s about to get very bad. You know it would be safer—for both of you—if you just leave. Give her some time to cool off, or something. But you’re too scared of what that entails for her.

You ask her to calm down again, and to please listen to you. You tell her that you’d pay for it, even if it meant taking up _work_ again. She laughs.

“Oh, I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You bite your tongue. She doesn’t even look sorry, and you bite your tongue harder until you taste blood.

“You’re such a slut.” She shakes her head and laughs again. “Stop acting like we’re going to be ok, and just accept that our lives are fucked, Camila. We aren't like those other people. _We don’t deserve happiness.”_

You squeeze your eyes shut, and almost bite your tongue off. 

 _“You don’t deserve happiness._ ”

It crosses a line you didn’t know you were so close too. It pushes you off the edge, and suddenly all your pent up anger is ready to burst. You slap her. You’re used to it, and so is she. She doesn’t even flinch, and it’s almost like she leaned in to it. She shoves you, and you stumble against the table, hurting your back. You yelp in pain, before lunging back at her.  

She hits the counter, causing several pots and pans to clatter to the ground. Your arm lands on broken glass. 

You punch her this time, and wrap your hands around her neck.

It throws her in to a rage you’ve only seen one other time. Your mind travels back to your graduation, and the feeling of your head slamming against the concrete. 

It slamming against the hardwood brings you back to reality. She’s on top of you, in an uncontrollable rage. She’s screaming about her father, and then she’s punching you senseless. 

Your vision fades. 

 

VII. 

 

> _“I love her. I really do. And I wish there was someone to tell me what to do. Because I love her so much that it’s hurting me. I think. I don’t know, I don’t fucking know._
> 
>   _I love her, but I don’t know if that’s enough anymore._
> 
>   _But do I even deserve better?”_

  

VIII.

Everything hurts. And it’s not an exaggeration. Your jaw the most, actually. Your vision is blurry, and you hope it’s just from adjusting to the bright lights. You already know you’re in the hospital—you’ve been here so much that you recognize the smell. 

The chair next to your bed is empty, and you physically laugh out loud. Even though it hurts, you laugh again. And you laugh, and laugh, and laugh yourself to excruciating tears, because _of course it’s empty._

It’s a cycle. A never-ending cycle.

You wouldn’t have expected anything else from her.

 

IX.

You get discharged from the hospital two days later, and when you get home, she’s not even there. You just scoff, and dig around in your room until you find your notebook.

 

 

> _“You can’t change people. You can love them as hard as you physically can, and you can tell them how much you believe in them. You can trust them, and treat them better than they deserve to be treated, but at the end of the day, they are still the same person they were before it started._
> 
> _I just wish someone told me this before I met her.”_

 

You're angry. Not at her, but at yourself, for trusting her like this. You go to her room—the door is still off the hinges, broken from when you kicked it down. 

You find her ‘things’. Her pile of drugs underneath the bed. You open the window, and throw them out, listening to the satisfying shattering of glass, and cracking of the wood box it was all held in. You leave it for someone else to find. 

You don’t even care that you might’ve ruined someone’s life.

  

X.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t worried. It’s been three weeks. She hasn’t called, or texted, or given you any sign. _Hell, you don’t even know if she’s alive._ She could be dead in an alley somewhere, a needle stuck in her arm. The police would find her, days later, from reports of foul smell, and just tag her as an addicted bum. They’d probably think she was a homeless prostitute, and they wouldn’t know anything about the tiny bit of good inside her. How she’s so understanding, and forgiving, even if she has a temper. That she’s passionate and has a great sense of humor. How she loves so hard, and—

_Goddamnit._

_You’re not mad at her_.

You grab your jacket and your keys, and head out to look for the girl you love.

 

XI.

 

> _“I think about her a lot. About how she uprooted my life and turned it to hell. About how I let her do that. So many bad things have happened to me—and I’ve done so many bad things myself, and it’s just getting harder and harder to remind myself that I’m a good person._
> 
> _I’m a fucking good person._  
> 
> _And she is too. I know she’s done bad things, too—especially to me, but she’s good, I know. And I may be naive or blinded by love, but yeah, I love her, and that’s why I know she’s a good person._
> 
> _It’s just getting harder to remind myself of that too._
> 
> _Love is why I’m still here, with her. It’s what makes me act like a fucking idiot, and it’s why my life is not what it used to be anymore. I’m not sure if loving someone is always the answer, and that thought is ripping me up inside more than it should._  
> 
> _I’m realizing that love isn’t always the right choice, and that it can be bad, sometimes._
> 
> _I’m just hoping that isn’t the case for me, because I don’t know if I could handle that harsh reality.”_

 

XII. 

You find her. You looked in all of your places, and you find her in the park. She’s on the swings, the soft creak of the metal filling the open air. It’s dark, and you’re surprised you didn’t trip. You sit on the swing next to her, and don’t say anything. 

The rustling of the wind through the trees calms you. You forgot there were actually quiet places in Miami. You used to bring your sister to this very park, actually, and you wonder if she still goes here. If she still has someone to play with, and if she has someone to talk to—someone who understands. 

“Hey.” You finally say.

“Hey.”

“Where have you been?”

She doesn’t answer, and you sigh audibly. 

 _“I’m so fucking ashamed of myself.”_ Her voice is so quiet, you think for a second you imagined it. You look out at sky, and you can see the dark treetops. You remind yourself to write about this moment. 

When she sniffles next to you, trying to contain her sobs with her sleeve, you know you didn’t imagine it.

“It’s ok, Lauren." 

“But it’s not.” She doesn’t look at you—just kicks the ground. _“I keep fucking hurting you.”_  

You don’t know what to say. A part of you still thinks this is a dream, because you haven’t heard Lauren apologize in so long. 

“It’s so fucked up.” She sobs loudly, “Our lives are so fucking fucked up, and it’s all my fucking fault. _Fuck._ ” 

You don’t know what to say, so you make a joke. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself, you baby.” She’s laughing. 

“You’re the baby.” She mumbles. 

You smile, “But I know. I know exactly what you mean.”

“Camz?”

“Yeah?”

“I wanna try therapy.”

 

XIII.

The office is cramped, and you can hear the clock ticking loudly. The grumpy, old man pronounces your name wrong when he calls you back, and she shoots you a cheeky grin. 

You start with the basics—name, age, occupation—little stuff that you can handle.  

And then he asks you why you’re here. You turn to her, and both of you laugh.  

“How the hell do we answer that?” 

 

XIV. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” You tug her arm gently, and she turns around with a small smile.

“No, I want to do this.” She says firmly.  

“Call me when it’s over. Maybe we can go grab something to eat.” You pull her in for a firm kiss, and when she tries to pull away, you grab her collar and pull her back in. 

She chuckles, and against your lips she says, “Camz, I don’t want to be late.”

You don’t want her to go—well, you do; she needs to go—but you’re just…still in shock.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” You finally pull away. 

“It’s not like I’m proud.” She looks away, blushing slightly.

“Well I am.” You place a hand on her cheek, and lift her gaze to meet yours. “I’m so proud of you, Lauren.”

She smiles softly, placing her own hand over yours. “I love you.” 

You kiss her again, and fold your arms as you watch her leave. You find your notebook. 

 

 

> _“She just left to go to her first AA meeting. I know it’s not all of the problem, but it’s a start. I know she hasn’t had a hit in awhile, and I know nothing about the withdraw effects, but I know she’s fighting some of her darkest demons. She’s so strong, but sometimes I worry that she forgets that._

> _I think about what I can do. Our therapist told us to try and take small steps towards healing everyday, and while Lauren’s making leaps and bounds, I don’t feel like I’ve done anything._

> _I want to try and talk to my family.”_

 

XV.

“Are you nervous?” She parks the car against the curb, and as soon as you see the house, and the big tree in the yard, your mother’s precious flowers, and the little hole that you twisted your ankle in in the fourth grade, everything comes flooding back to you.

You shrug, but when you feel her hand on your shoulder, you relax a bit. 

“Do you want me to come up with you?”

You look at her, and shake your head with a smile. She understands. 

 _Some battles have to be fought alone, or else they won’t actually be won_.

Your feet feel like lead as you walk up the familiar pathway, and you barely makes it to the doorbell. You hear shuffling on the other side of the door, and then arguing. You self-consciously jam your hands in to your pockets, and you lower your gaze.

The door opens, and it’s your father.

He looks a lot older, and you wonder if it’s your fault. (It is).

“You need to leave.” His voice is low and urgent, like you’re some sort of secret he doesn’t want anyone else finding out about.  

“Dad—”

“ _I said go_ , Karla.” He’s firm, and you know you won’t win. 

You walk back to the car in shame, but before you can reach it, she steps out, and grabs your wrist, leading you around to the back of the house. 

“What are you doing?”

“I snuck in to your room for two years. I’m going to show you how to do it.”

  

XVI.

You aren’t a very good climber, but you manage with her encouraging words from down below. 

And then you’re at _her_ window. And you’re shaking uncontrollably when you knock gently on it.

She appears at the window, and you burst in to tears.

She’s so grown up. She’s not a little girl anymore, and you hate that you weren’t there to witness her change. You’ve both grown up so much, and with a few deep breaths, you calm yourself down a bit.

“Kaki?” Her voice is unsure, and she rubs her eyes to make sure she isn’t dreaming. 

“Can I come in?” You bite your lip to try and prevent a loud sob from escaping. 

She nods dumbly, and steps out of the way.

As soon as you enter her room, you sink to your knees on the soft carpet, and feel the tears stream down your face.

“Kaki, why are you crying?” She asks innocently.

 _“I’m so sorry,”_ You slowly manage to get out, in between soft sobs. You still don’t lift your head. “I love you so much, Sophia.”

“Why are you sorry?” She tilts her head.

You look up, and see her genuinely puzzled expression. “I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me.”

She frowns for a second, and then smiles. “It’s ok. I forgive you.”

She wraps her arms around your neck, and you just hold her.

Your sister just taught you the real way to love, in less than a minute.

  

XVII.

“How did it go?” Lauren asks wearily. She went back to the car to wait. (Probably because she was cold, but she’s too tough to admit to that).

You wipe your last tears, and look up at her window. “Really well.”

“Really?” She genuinely smiles. “Camz, that’s amazi––”

You kiss her, gripping the back of her neck and holding her so close that she can’t possibly pull away.

“I love you, Lauren.” 

 

XVIII.

Rehab is hard on her. It’s an out-patient-type thing, because you couldn’t afford real rehab. You can see how hard she’s trying, and you try and be there for her in any way you can. Sometimes she’ll lock herself in her room, because she says she doesn’t want you to see her like this. You tell her you’ve seen her at her lowest lows, and you want to help. But you know it’s her battle to fight alone.

You help a little bit, though. 

You make her tea, and cuddle with her when she starts shivering. You tilt her head forward and apply pressure to her nose when it bleeds. (Which happens almost every night, but the doctor said it’s normal). And you hold her hair back when she throws up. You kiss her hard when you see her mind start to wander back to it. You blind her with love, so she can’t focus on anything else.

And it’s kind of working. And for once, you’re not distrustful of a hopeful future.

  

XIX.

“Don’t peek.” You say sternly, before placing a quick kiss on her lips. You run to the other side of the roof, and make sure everything is in order.

“Can I pl—”

“—no. Not yet.” You almost giggle at her irritated expression. “Ok, you can look now.”

You watch nervously as she takes in her surroundings. You had set up a nice table and chairs, complete with candles and a nice table cloth. You look behind you, and mentally thank the universe for creating one of the best sunsets you’ve ever seen. 

“Camz, I’m already crying.” She frowns, and sits down across from you.

“Happy birthday.” You raise your glass. It’s filled with soda, and so is hers. She laughs when she drinks it, before thanking you.

“What’s on the menu?” She asks playfully, and you grin, looking down at the Big Mac from _McDonalds_ on your plate. 

“The best fine dining in all of Miami.” You grin, taking a large bite in to your burger. 

“I love you.” She shakes her head while laughing, taking a bite as well.

You eat in relative silence, commenting about the view every now and then.

“I’d like to raise a toast.” She giggles, raising her glass. You raise yours as well, an eyebrow quirked up. “To being three months clean.”

“To being three months clean.” You repeat. “And to _McDonalds._ ”

She laughs, setting her glass down. 

You take another look at her—she’s wearing an old sweatshirt. (It’s the summer, for crying out loud, and she’s wearing a sweatshirt. But she still won’t admit to being cold-blooded).

You see her loving and understanding side. Her kindness, compassion, and intelligence. 

But you don’t only see the good. You see her temperamental, lying, and violent side. Her anger and irrationality.

You don’t deny her troubles. 

_You just love her._

“Camz, I wanna tell you about my family.”

 

XX.

You set your glass down, and look at her with gentle eyes. “Ok." 

And she tells you. It’s scrappy and messy, and you ask a question when you get lost. The sun has already set, and you rely on the dim candles as your source of light. Her tears shine in the pale glow, and you don’t think they’re the kind you’re used to.  

At the end of it all, you stand up, and hug her. 

She melts in to your touch, and her tears soak your shirt. 

“I still think we’re going to wake up from this any day.” She admits softly. “That it’s all too good to be true.”

“I know.” You say. “That’s ok.”

“I’m scared.”

You kiss her.

 

XXI.

 

> _“I think I’m beginning to understand my place in the universe. I’m not going to be famous, and I’m not going to inspire world peace. I know I’m not even going to change the world._
> 
> _And I’m ok with that._
> 
> _But I know I matter, at least to someone. One of the only people I care about. She drives me to be better, and she makes me a better person._
> 
> _I know she’s done some pretty horrible things—but I have too. And I can’t move forward if I don’t forgive. I’ve learned to release my resentments, and to forgive._  
> 
> _And I know that I deserve a happy ending. It may not be perfect, or filled with riches, but I have every right to a happy ending as anyone else. And if I have to work a little harder to reach mine, then that’s what I have to do._  
> 
> _I think that things are going to be ok. I think they’re going to get better.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts and opinions on this chapter, and I really hope you leave this tiny little story feeling a little bit better about anything, and I'm sorry if it made you sad, but I'm glad we were able to do this together.
> 
> Was that cheesy? Sorry.
> 
> :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for any comments or kudos, it's all greatly appreciated. :)


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